


So Much Better

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>None of them had intended for this - whatever <em>this</em> was - to end up like this, but none of them would ever complain that it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Much Better

**Author's Note:**

> This is short enough that I almost feel bad publishing it on its own, but...well, there we are.
> 
> Polyamory is difficult for me to write, so while I _always_ welcome concrit, I would especially appreciate it on this one!
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

When this had started, whatever this convoluted arrangement was, it had been all about heat and anger and passion. It had been teeth and tongues and bruises and scrapes and quick fucks against whatever surface was available. It had been stress relief, plain and simple.

It wasn’t supposed to involve feelings.

It sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be so damned…domestic.

Of course, for Feuilly and Bahorel it had always been domestic, since they lived together, sharing a cramped two-bedroom apartment that neither could really afford. And for them, in the beginning, it had been plainly about stress relief. When Bahorel came home from a bad day of actually studying for school for once in his life and needed something to take his mind off of things. Or when Feuilly had a project that didn’t seem to work out the way that he wanted it to.

They would fuck. They would not kiss, they would not whisper sweet nothings to each other, they would not cuddle afterwards. It was a physical act like boxing or painting. Afterward they would go back to bickering constantly and forgetting to eat properly and watching movies that they never really watched, just mocked. And that was that.

Surprisingly, to anyone who gave it any thought, anyway, it was Grantaire would changed that.

It had started with Grantaire and Bahorel, at their usual weekly boxing session. Once they had finished with their normal, official round, things turned playful as they always did, sparring without any care for the rules. Bahorel aimed a cheap shot at Grantaire’s ribs, but Grantaire darted away, laughing, until Bahorel rushed him, pulling him to the ground. “The fuck!” Grantaire said, still laughing, twisting to try and get away. “This isn’t wrestling, you asshole.”

Even as he said it, he managed to flip Bahorel over so that he was practically straddling him, and there was a brief moment where they both just looked at each other before Grantaire leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was light and gentle and the complete opposite of anything Bahorel had ever traded with Feuilly. It was also over in an instant when Grantaire pulled away, looking stricken. “Shit,” he whispered. “I…I didn’t mean…”

“Shut up,” Bahorel told him, and pulled him back down to kiss him again, a languid, open-mouthed kiss that led to languid, steamy - in the literal sense - sex in the shower of the gym.

They both agreed not to talk about it, that it had been fun and they had both enjoyed it, but that it didn’t need to mean anything, they didn’t need to discuss it more, and they would part as friends.

Until two weeks later, when Feuilly and Grantaire were alone in the art studio, Feuilly finishing up a sculpture and Grantaire working on a painting that had been plaguing him all week, when Feuilly said conversationally, without looking up, “So I heard you slept with Bahorel.”

Grantaire’s paintbrush skittered across the canvas and he swore under his breath. “Um, yeah,” he said awkwardly after a long moment. “Is that…I mean…are you ok with that?”

“Bahorel and I aren’t, like, together or anything,” Feuilly said quickly. “I mean, we fuck occasionally, but it’s whatever, you know?”

Nodding, Grantaire set his paintbrush down and ran a hand through his hair. “So then, uh, what…what…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought, and Feuilly blushed.

"I…was wondering if maybe you wanted to do the same thing with, um, me?"

Grantaire stared at him blankly for a few moments, and Feuilly stammered, “I mean, uh, you don’t have to, I was just—”

"Come here," Grantaire commanded softly. When Feuilly hesitated, he repeated, "Come here."

Feuilly walked slowly over to him, and Grantaire took his hand and pulled him close, kissing him softly. Feuilly kissed him back, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s neck. “Come home with me,” he whispered.

Grantaire pulled back slightly. “But…Bahorel…”

Shrugging, Feuilly kissed him again. “If he wants to join in, he can join in. Or wait his turn. Or whatever.”

So Grantaire went home with Feuilly, where Bahorel was more than happy to join in.

And then Grantaire just didn’t really leave.

He kept his own apartment, sure, but didn’t spend a heck of a lot of time there. Instead, Bahorel and Feuilly got used to him lounging on their couch or perched in their kitchen, complaining that they were out of milk.

What used to be nothing beyond the friendly watching of movies together turned into cuddling, Grantaire tucked against Bahorel’s chest, Feuilly pressed against his other side. The cuddling turned into kisses and touches and inevitably led to sex, but not the fierce fucking between Bahorel and Feuilly before.

It was softer now, though never quite gentle. And it wasn’t just stress relief.

It was so much more than that.

It was Saturday mornings with all three jammed into Feuilly’s bed, all complaining about needing a piss but none willing to leave the comfort and warmth for it.

It was Monday nights geeking out together while watching  _Sleepy Hollow_ , a bowl of popcorn on Grantaire’s lap with most of the popcorn ending up on the floor rather than in their mouths.

It was bad days when Bahorel pulled a muscle while boxing or Feuilly didn’t pull in any commissions or Grantaire’s drinking escalated, when there was fighting and shouting and Grantaire went back to his apartment if he wasn’t so drunk that he had already passed out while Bahorel and Feuilly hid in their rooms. But it was also the mornings after, when Grantaire showed up with coffee and Bahorel stole into Feuilly’s bed and kissed him awake (and the makeup sex was  _always_  amazing).

It was good days, days when Grantaire waltzed with Bahorel while Feuilly laughed as he watched, or when Grantaire and Feuilly tackled Bahorel to the ground, stripped him of his clothes, and spent the afternoon using his body as a canvas, painting the ripples and curves of his muscles and kissing all the places they painted.

And it was all the days in between, days filled with laughter and joy and something none of them wanted to put into words.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It wasn’t supposed to be  _love_.

But as Feuilly fell asleep with his head against Grantaire’s shoulder late one night, as Grantaire leaned his cheek against Feuilly’s head and closed his eyes, as Bahorel heaved a sigh while carrying first Feuilly and then Grantaire to bed before clambering in after them, a smile stealing across his face as Feuilly draped himself across Bahorel’s chest and Grantaire snuggled into his side, already snoring, none of them would ever complain about this being what they had never intended it to be.

Because it was so much better than that.


End file.
